


Safe and Sound

by beanarie



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Female Character of Color, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mental Illness, Mentions of Substance Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Survivor Guilt, racial microaggressions, warning for casual ableism, warning for violence against women
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-14
Updated: 2015-06-14
Packaged: 2018-04-04 10:40:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4134414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beanarie/pseuds/beanarie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joan goes through life stockpiling reasons not to come undone. Sherlock learns about several of them after she crosses the street to drop off the mail and doesn't come back for two days.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sherlock

**Author's Note:**

> I started working on this a really ridiculously long time ago because of a lovely anon who asked for Joan to disappear, suddenly or gradually, and for Sherlock to deal with the aftermath. The continuity follows season 1 and about half of season 2, going AU before Moriarty resurfaced in 212 (203 placed her at Newgate Prison, which is where I kept her.), but incorporates some things I liked from later episodes. Bell still transferred out of Major Crimes. Joan still has two dads (By the way, "Dad" = step/adopted dad, "Baba" = bio-dad), but she never told Sherlock about them. At the time when most of this was written, Mycroft's motives had yet to be revealed, so I just left him and his relationship with Joan out completely.
> 
> TLDR: Set vaguely around the middle of season 2, a few months after Bell was shot. 
> 
> Credit to hophophop/amindamazed, who first came up with Sherlock cloning Joan's phone. Also a big thanks to her and sanguinity for much-needed support, betaing and cheerleading. This is better because of them. Additional thanks to the whole JWDB group on tumblr. I won't list names because I'm afraid of leaving people out, but know that I'm inspired by you.
> 
> Alternate title: "Everybody Loves Joan". That's it. That's the fic.

Holmes lie on his stomach on the floor, a pair of small pliers in his teeth, while in the background Watson expressed her mind about... something. He was a bit busy reconfiguring this motherboard at the moment. But he'd like to think she knew all along he wasn't listening. At times she had been known to speak purely for her own edification. 

She supported his hypothesis with a crisp, "I'm just saying," that made him smile with half his mouth.

"One of my least favorite Americanisms," he muttered around the pliers. "Penultimate to 'Not for nothing'." Brooklyn was a treasure trove of so many things.

"So you are in there," Watson said, a grin in her voice. A pair of slippers and a mug of tea appeared at his elbow. He spit the pliers onto the carpet and took a drink as she stepped away. "I was starting to think you'd been replaced by a scarily human-looking robot."

His smile wanted very much to change to a grimace as he heard echoes of former classmates, colleagues, and family members, but he didn't let his expression waver. Watson's usually measured words veered thoughtless on occasion--an imperfection to add to the slowly growing pile. He was hardly in a position to lecture another on being indelicate. "If you'd seen the output and forecast of the robotics field, you'd know we're still quite a ways from a machine that can fool observers to that level." He looked up, taking in the details of her running ensemble. Her second favorite pair of leggings, ending just below the knee and faded from the original black by dint of repeated washings, highlighted the crisp whiteness of her brand new top. "Your schedule is currently a bit thin next Tuesday. Remind me to add a new topic to your reading assignments."

"Just on the off chance we end up doing a case lifted from the brain of Isaac Asimov."

"Off chances are only off until they're not," he said. His statement ended with a yawn, which he made a command decision to ignore. 

A moment or two later, the tea went in and out of focus without his permission and he could just feel her give one of her eloquently sardonic tilts of the head. "I knew the last few days would catch up to you eventually."

"Indeed." He yawned again, scowling as he closed his hand around the pliers and couldn't recall what he meant to do with them. Final straw. He shoved his work aside to climb onto the couch.

"Hey, before you pass out for the next eighteen hours, did you have anything to go to the mailbox?"

"No," he said, rolling over, showing her his back. "I'll be awake in forty minutes."

"Sure you will," she said. 

"There's a... thing, call I have to make," he mumbled. 

"Hm, me, too," he heard faintly, just before he closed his eyes.

When he opened them again, the sun had lost half a day's height in the sky. He pushed away the blanket and shuddered. 

The house felt a lot emptier than it should.

~

Detective Gallarza stood in the middle of the street, a semi-circle of orange cones protecting her from the intermittent traffic. "All I'm seeing is that Ms. Watson dropped her phone before she went out," she said. 

Holmes scrunched up his face, restraining the urge to rub at his eyes. "It wasn't dropped. It was placed there intentionally." He maneuvered around the mailbox to hold out Watson's phone. "Note the absence of cracks or scratches. The front surface of the phone is actually pristine. It was clearly pressed into the mud face up. And there's the small matter of her slipper, which you may not have noticed, but is just past the curb over there."

Gallarza followed the path of his finger, taking in the new information, subtly chastising herself for not seeing the significance. She was proving not terrible to work with, unlike some of her fellows in Major Crimes. Since Bell volunteered his services elsewhere, Holmes had been exposed to nearly every one of them. 

At the time of his only other significant interaction with this woman, he'd been ten days out of Hemdale. She had blinked her long-lashed eyes at him and nodded along as he fed her a line about a social scientist friend who'd done a study about women in traditionally male occupations. ( _I'm curious to see where you fall on the bell curve._ ) As soon as he'd stopped talking, she'd walked away without commenting. From deductions, he'd gathered a few personal details. Jogging was her favorite form of exercise. She had a young dachshund the color of a bar of milk chocolate. Gallarza might hit it off with Watson, if they ever found themselves in the same space for more than the three seconds it took to pass by each other in the hallways or at crime scenes, though Watson didn't have a habit of making strong connections at the station. She was polite, even amiable, but she didn't socialize--some combination of feeling she had enough friends and being gun-shy about work relationships. She had lost a large portion of her support system when she left medicine.

"Okay," Gallarza said, "but why ditch the phone? It's the single most useful thing in this situation. Big sacrifice just for the sake of you seeing it and knowing something had gone wrong."

"He had a gun." Holmes let his fingertips skim the edge of Watson's footprint. "There are footprints all over this tiny square of what was formerly grass. The indentations here are quite a bit deeper. She was frozen in place. He pointed the gun at her, and he ordered her to drop the phone." She hadn't dropped it, exactly. He wondered if she'd been punished for that. "Anyway, Watson's not stupid. She knew she couldn't conceal a phone, not with what she was wearing. Form-fitting shorts and vest, er. Tank top. She'd just returned from a run. She'd had a light jacket earlier, but she left that in foyer. Unseasonably warm today. I don't doubt you noticed."

"Supposed to cool down again tonight," Gallarza remarked. 

Holmes nodded jerkily. His phone rang. Gregson. 

 

_Two knocks, and then he waited ten seconds. If Watson protested, he was not to enter. If she said nothing, she could be asleep, in which case he was only permitted to bother her if there had been a case-related breakthrough. But the point was rendered moot by the music coming through the gaps in the door and the subtle but unmistakable vibrations of a body in motion. She was awake. Holmes entered the room._

_"Watson?"_

_She stood near the far end of her bed, manipulating a bit of rope with her hands. Similar bits were strewn about the bed, arranged in a wonky circle around one of his books on knots open at the middle, while German opera rang forth from her computer's short-range speakers. "Sherlock," she greeted, pointedly not looking his way. Her eyes were locked on her prying fingers._

_'Der Ring des Nibelungen?' he wanted to say, 'Really?' But the anti-Wagnerian rant that had already grown to several minutes long in his mind would throw him miles off course and he had a plan for this conversation. "Um."_

_She groaned. "I don't care what 'absolutely essential to my training' spin you put on it, I'm not going to the Bronx for you. You're the one who got yourself banned. You like their first editions that much; you can put forth the effort to smooth things over with the owner."_

_"What was Captain Gregson's part in our conversation about you and your proximity to danger?"_

_Her hand clenched around the half-finished knot. She turned to look at him._

_"You did not sign on to be placed on the sidelines whenever I, or Gregson, or anyone else decide it's too dangerous. That was what you said eleven days ago." Her gaze drifted south about twelve inches from his eyes to his wounded shoulder, and he set his jaw. "Allow me to head your attempt at derailment off at the pass. The ibuprofen I ingested less than an hour ago continues to perform its functions quite capably, I have been conscious for no more than nine hours, and I have consumed both food and water in the very recent past. Now I've established that I'm of sound mind and improving health, about my question..."_

_She raised an eyebrow._

_Suddenly it was a lot easier to look at the wood splintering off in the doorway. He could feel her averting her eyes as well. "If you don't feel comfortable confiding in me, I cannot force you to. But. I would like to know."_

_After a long stretch of silence, she said, "Okay."_

 

Sherlock pressed his lips together and punched out a quick text. _chsng lead cus_

"If your captain asks," he said. "Let him know I'll be at the home of Dr. Carrie Dwyer."

"Why?"

Holmes slipped Watson's phone into the evidence bag Gallarza held out. "The reason Watson had this with her in the first place. She was making a call."

~

"I was actually pretty confused that Joan called me back, and of course it had to be while I was in surgery and couldn't answer." Carrie extracted her phone from a drawer and thumbed through several screens before she found the verification. Holmes raised his eyebrows. "I've been leaving her messages every month or two for... it's gotta be almost a year now. She hasn't returned a single one before today."

He nodded. She allowed him to listen to the message ( _Hi. It's Joan. Listen, you mentioned coffee? I know this great bookstore with a cafe. Let me know when you're free._ ) and forward it to himself. Watson's breathing was slightly irregular, probably from running to the mailbox. The ambient noise of the street came through clearly. Whether there was anything more beneficial would remain to be seen.

Holmes turned toward the exit, then back around, as he realized he may never see this woman again. "What was it you said to Watson last year? Somehow it caused her to cut all lingering ties between herself and her previous profession." Carrie stared at her keyboard. "About her last patient, I assume?" She looked up. Holmes shrugged. Watson had one glaring Achilles heel. She nearly quit on him that second day because of what he said.

Carrie followed the edge of the desk with her finger.

"Did you ever meet him? Gerald Castoro?"

She shook her head. "But I remember having breakfast with her the day after her first consultation with him. She was, I don't know, charmed. He got genuinely excited when he saw her, said she must be a good surgeon. And she was expecting him to say something about how great Asian doctors were. Patients did that sometimes." When it came to Carrie, of course, that line of thinking would lead to a very different reaction.

"And instead?"

Carrie met his eyes. "He said she'd clearly worked hard and had talent to get to her position at such a young age." Her upper lip curled into a sort of smile. "Sounded like a pickup line to me, but I wasn't there when he said it. Joanie said it felt like he saw _her_ , or at least made an attempt--people always thought she was younger than she was. That kind of thing doesn't happen often. Surgeons are a miracle machine, put your coins in and get five to fifty more years on this planet. We're not really people. We're not allowed to be." She lifted one shoulder. "Every job's got drawbacks, and the perks are pretty great. Medicine's got a lot to recommend it. Still, you learn to appreciate the rare times someone doesn't go by the script."

"Right." His phone buzzed again.

_Unless you found Joan and you're both hanging out eating pizzas I want you at the station now._

~

Holmes hovered at the threshold to Gregson's office. "Dr. Dwyer had no information... pertinent to the case." He nodded and took a half step back out of the doorway. "If you should have trouble getting to me by phone for the next few hours, I'm going to Newgate prison. You can try me there."

Gregson's eyes widened. "The hell you are."

Holmes stepped inside and closed the door. "Captain, you cannot deny there is a very strong likelihood that Moriarty is involved in this. Watson was an integral part of-"

Gregson held up his hand. "I'm not denying anything. That's why I just spent an hour on the phone with Newgate demanding Moriarty's comings and goings. Warden said she's done nothing out of the ordinary. No visitors, no break in the routine, no recent change of guard or any suspicious contact with the other prisoners. By all appearances, she's clean."

"That means next to nothing," Holmes said. "Remember who we're talking about." Gregson's scowl expressed his reluctant agreement. "However, if she did mastermind Watson's disappearance, she wouldn't bother to keep it a secret. She would tell me, somehow. Perhaps not in actual words, but body language, code... something. Otherwise where's the fun?"

"And the only way for her to get her fun would be to see your reaction." Gregson frowned deeply. "In person."

"I understand what you're implying, that I'd be playing into her hands, but we hardly-"

"Let it sit until tomorrow. Okay? Listen, Joan's mom and best friend are here. Could have given their statements over the phone, but family likes to get their answers in person." Gregson looked at him squarely.

"Yes?"

"You planning on losing it? 'Cause I don't mind telling you, we really don't have time for that." 

Holmes glared.

"If you want, I could have one of the unis take you to the shooting range for a half hour or so, clear your head, maybe." 

All so he didn't have a meltdown in front of Watson's mother. Holmes took a brief moment to take stock. No. No, he felt fine. Motivated, that was all. "Can I consider that a standing offer?"

"Unless I have reason to believe you intend to have one of your little street kids cause a diversion so you can make off with the guns and ammo, sure. Yeah, why not."

"I will keep that in mind."

"Do that. In the meantime, I'm trusting you to keep it together." He lifted one finger. " _Or_. Or to let someone know if you can't. And if you go to Newgate, you're not going alone. We're gonna do this right, and get her back by breakfast, okay?"

"Noted."

"Also," Gregson said. "Bell found out about Joan." He tipped his chin to indicate the precinct outside his office. "Blew up my phone as soon as he heard. Then he convinced Gallarza to let him take the reins. He's with Mrs. Watson now."

"Of course," Holmes said, as though he'd anticipated this the way he should have.

~

A small ginger head rested at the junction of Emily's head and shoulder, feet bearing shoes with cartoon trains limply banging her in the knees as she slowly stood from the chair. "Had to bring Devon along. His dad's in New Haven for a writing seminar," she said, adjusting her arm under the boy's backside. "Look, are you sure about this? I mean, after Liam..."

Her voice trailed off, prompting Holmes to nod to indicate she wasn't betraying a confidence. True, he wasn't personally acquainted with the man. He didn't need to be. The face he knew from the case file Watson had dissected in front of him. The name conjured thoughts of the Fifty-Ninth Street Clinic, and Watson betraying more and more subtle signs of anxiety until she rose from the bench and left the building. Over the course of the next week, she'd burned through half a shelf of books in his library, distracting herself from the guilt and turmoil Liam's disruption had caused.

"I'm not saying she ran away or anything," Emily continued. "Just, I'd call. She was fine, she said. The following day she was also fine, and the next, and then she was in West Virginia." Emily looked skyward, a shade of old, remembered frustration. "She tagged along on some medical outreach project, filling in for a colleague who had to drop out. She was gone over a month. Didn't say a word to her parents or anyone until after she got off the plane in Charleston and was too many hundreds of miles away for anything but to continue on that path."

"If she'd told you beforehand, you would have dissuaded her from leaving."

"Well," Emily began, and couldn't finish. Holmes chanced a glimpse at his watch. "Joan takes her decisions really seriously. Once she makes one, she goes for it full throttle, and she won't take any criticism. That's what I'm saying, I guess."

"You think she's en route to Appalachia," he said dryly.

"No. No, I just..."

Wanted to believe for a moment that she was healthy and out of harm's way. Holmes gave a quiet sigh. He couldn't fault Emily for the impulse.

"You know, she sat down with me a while back, told me the whole story about that subway pusher asshole." Her smile flickered on and off. "Off the record, don't worry."

Holmes's fingers twitched at his side. That shed some light on how Watson was able to move on and continue their friendship despite Emily having been so adamant about "not getting" Watson's new life and career. It was all incredibly fascinating. He looked forward to exploring the subject in depth another time.

"You initially gave her that case because to do your job, you have to be good at finding people," she said, her expression growing pinched and fretful as she rubbed her child's back. "So you can find her. I'm trusting you to do that."

That word again. Trust. 

~

The look Bell gave Holmes was not quite a glare, but was tangibly darker than his usual once-over. He got up from his perch on the edge of Gallarza's desk. "Stephanie brought me up to speed before she let me take over the case. That going to be a problem?"

"You are the one who chose to distance yourself, Detective." Holmes couldn't avoid volleying one back, though he directed his gaze toward the wall and made an attempt at removing any belligerence from his tone. Bell's investigative skills were less of an unknown quantity than Gallarza's. In addition, he cared about Watson. He had a personal investment in ensuring her safe return. 

Bell crossed his arms tight over his chest. "Anyway, a bunch of the people our unis questioned on your street brought up the same UPS truck you mentioned this afternoon parked right next to the spot where Joan disappeared. Seems like a good place to start. There are eight ex-offenders with a history related to assault or kidnapping that have direct access to those vehicles, or could maybe get it from close family members or known associates. I figured we find out what these folks have to say. If you're coming, wheels up in ten. I'm just waiting on a call from the 84th precinct. Your neighborhood guys looked into the surveillance cameras in the area. Said they might have some pictures or video we can use."

Holmes nodded. "I should speak to Watson's mother before we leave." He didn't wait for Bell to respond before making a bee-line for the conference room.

~

"I didn't really have to worry about Joan while she was growing up." Mary Watson held her hand over the cup of tea Holmes had given her, then wiped the steam from her palm. "It's usually the opposite, isn't it? If you have a boy and a girl, you look out for the girl. But Joan was so independent, from such a young age. Oren came along at a very fraught time, a lot of stress. I was placed on bed rest, actually, due to my blood pressure. Mr. Watson wasn't really ready to go it alone with a preschooler. We made the difficult decision to send Joan to her grandparents in Vancouver."

"How long?" Holmes asked.

"Eight weeks." Her chosen measurement spoke volumes. He was almost surprised she didn't go with days instead, or hours, minutes. "I'll never forget the day we got her back. She was so..." Mary held out her hand about the same height as the table and withdrew it, swallowing hard. "small. But already I felt like she didn't need me." She adjusted her cardigan, smoothing out the wrinkles. "I know I- I cling sometimes, but, to be honest, it's always been more for my benefit than hers. I have to feel like I'm _trying_ at least."

Holmes rocked forward and back slightly. Someone in Mary's current circumstances should not be alone. Emily would drive her home, but then she would return to her own life full of concerns about editors, deadlines and lunchboxes. "About Mr. Watson..."

"I didn't tell him about this." Her mouth twisted. Watson's parents had a very complicated relationship for two such seemingly genial people. While Holmes had never been introduced to Watson, Senior, he'd observed enough to form hypotheses from snatches of (sometimes accidentally) overheard phone conversations. And there was a sliver of Watson that emerged sometimes that felt ingrained but didn't seem to come from Mary, just as polite and accommodating, but more down-to-earth somehow, less refined. "He's out of the country doing publicity for his latest book and just-" A phone-buzz came from her handbag. "Oh, it's Oren. Excuse me for a minute." 

If forced to describe Oren Watson in as few words as humanly possible, Holmes would say stubbornly good-natured, with equal emphasis on both terms. Watson's brother had an intriguing ability to force others onto an even keel through dogged optimism and inherent belief in a just hand guiding the universe.

 

_"It's a little scary, right?" Watson said. Her eyes were bloodshot and open a bit too wide, but she smiled, riding the wave of success and sleep deprivation that came from three solved cases in five days. "When we were kids, I used to try so hard to get him to lose it. This went on for years, no exaggeration. But he never cracked."_

_"You like pushing buttons," Holmes said, feigning shock._

_She grinned. "You're still the professional here. For me it's just a hobby."_

 

Mary squeezed her eyes shut. "Oren? Honey, calm down. Please." 

~

Teddy met Holmes outside a Duane Reade a block from the home of number three on Bell's list, a stone-faced Levon in tow. Levon, it should be said, was rarely all that expressive, at least around Sherlock. Today, the difference was in how Teddy refrained from teasing Levon out of it, merely prodding the other boy along after nodding at Sherlock. "We'll pass the message on, tell everybody we know to be on the lookout."

"See that you do," Holmes said. 

 

_Watson and Levon paused in front of a weeping willow (Levon was a middle name, Holmes had discovered. First name Danielle, which for obvious reasons the boy never used.), Levon stooped and hunched over to make up for the six inch difference in height, as though no one else would be able to listen in because he wasn't standing up straight. After Holmes realized he was reading their lips, he turned away to give Teddy some last minute instructions._

_Teddy snorted. "You don't need to tell me so many times, Holmes. Twice. Twice is okay. Three times?" He adjusted the strap of his knapsack. "That's a little insulting." He waved at Levon. "Come on, dude! Let's go hunt for some old white guys with pinky rings."_

_Holmes shot him a look. "Excellent, Theodore. I appreciate the confirmation that you fully comprehend the task at hand."_

_Teddy grinned. Levon jogged up, and once he reached his friend, he hiked himself up onto Teddy's back. Watson settled at Holmes's side and together they watched the unbalanced spectacle stumble out of view._

_"I detect a fond wistfulness in your expression, Watson. Considering taking on your own apprentice?"_

_"He's a good kid." She rolled her eyes, at herself, an indicator that she might be spending a little too much time with him. "In addition to being a thief and a scam artist."_

_"Dare I ask what your conversation was about?"_

_"Levon's cousin starts high school next year and he doesn't want her to go to the one he did." Not that Holmes had needed confirmation that a black transgender youth with a great-aunt in place of a mother or father had been bullied in school, but there it was all the same. "I told him I don't know much about the school system, but I'd ask my friend. She teaches global studies in Far Rockaway."_

_"That was quite kind of you."_

_Watson smirked, tossing her hair a bit. "So glad you approve."_

 

"Thank you, gentlemen," Holmes said. "I'll pay ten times the usual amount for any legitimate information."

Levon made a noise as though offended. Holmes stared at him, wondering what the boy would have him do. He wasn't about to retract the offer.

~

A man at the eighth and final location bolted out the back door as soon as Sherlock and Bell explained who they were. _Yes,_ Holmes thought. _Finally_.

A tiny flicker of hope grew and grew, until the moment they caught up with him.

"I wasn't anywhere near that asshole's house when it went up," the man shouted amid the click of handcuffs and the jingle of the metal fence he was being held against. "I bet plenty of people threatened to set his place on fire."

Bell rolled his eyes. "Can't believe I ran six blocks for this." Two uniformed officers arrived, taking the suspect away, and for ten seconds he pressed the heel of his hand to his left flank, just over the spot where there should be a newly formed scar. Exchanging nods with the officers, he followed them to their patrol car, oblivious to what he'd done and whom he'd done it in front of. An unconscious habit, one he hadn't possessed before.

 

_Holmes bolted from the couch, scrambling upright so quickly he slid, stockinged feet threatening to fly out from under him before he recovered. He exhaled hard, his pulse a disorienting drumbeat in his ears, and he blinked at the sun hitting him between the eyes. Clarity took a long time to break through the haze of waking up. At that point, he already knew it hadn't been real. But the awareness did little to slow down the heart hammering against his ribs. He needed confirmation._

_Where the fucking hell was his mobile._

_Watson entered the room, her words barely audible over the sound of his panic, but her annoyance at the commotion came through clearly. He looked up at her almost angry frown from where he was bent in half pushing objects off the table. "Phone," he said._

_"Excuse me?" she asked. Another layer of fog burned away at her question and he got an idea._

_"Hey!" Watson snapped as he pushed past her. He kept walking._

_Adrenaline did its work dissipating the fog. He found himself in the foyer, Watson's bag in his hand._

_Watson stood before him, irritated and wary, with none of the exasperated concern he'd grown so accustomed to._

_They could talk about this. He could open his mouth and chip away at the brick wall he'd constructed behind her eyes._

_"What are you doing?" she asked, arms folded across her chest._

_"Nothing. Nothing." He placed her bag back on the bench and pulled his coat from one of the hooks. She allowed him to pass her by without commenting. The faint echo of the dream roiled his stomach as he ran up all the stairs they had._

_no one can find detective bell's brother. you're the one who has to decide what to do with the body._

_In the dream Watson had been at his side, silent and unmoving in her shock. To him, now, that made things worse. If she'd been crying, the tableau would have been easier to shake off. Watson never cried._

_After about an hour, Watson made her way to the roof and sat down in a folding chair to watch him work._

_"You know that this is in your power to change," she said. She sounded sad._

_He couldn't allow himself to believe her, not just then._

 

Holmes leaned against Bell's car, rubbing his eyes. It was no good. He could not perform under these conditions. "I believe we have exhausted enough of the city's resources for one night," he said, as Bell approached. "I'll grab a taxi from here and go back to the proverbial drawing board. Do alert me if there are any breakthroughs."

Bell looked like he was biting back a question. "All right. You do the same. I think I'll hit the pavement for a while longer."

~

At twelve minutes past six AM, almost the agreed upon time, Holmes stood in the lot next to the tiny building the monitor used as an office. He quieted his darker thoughts by trying to lay odds on which car Gregson would choose for their expedition.

Ten minutes later, Bell entered the lot, walked up to the monitor's office, and emerged with a set of keys.

Holmes followed him to a tan Toyota Corolla, the car he'd earmarked as Gregson's third most likely choice. "I was under the impression that it would be Captain Gregson accompanying me."

"He got called to City Hall for an urgent meeting. Didn't have much notice."

"Yet he had enough time to alert one of us."

Bell spread his hands. "Hey, are we going or what? Because I didn't get much to go on last night, but I'm sure I could come up with a more productive use for the next couple hours."

Check mate. Holmes retreated to the passenger side door.

~

Holmes stared at the Formica surface of the table as he waited, Bell a silently, invisibly intrusive presence in the back of the room. 

He could feel her entering the scene, settling into place on the other side of the bulletproof glass. Blindly he reached out and placed the phone receiver against his ear.

"Hello, Sherlock," she said.

He looked up finally, squinting at her. Time had allowed him a millimeter of distance he hadn't had the last time he'd been in this woman's presence, and he fancied that now he might be able to read her. He could see the question in her eyes appear just before she stifled it. 

He got up, walking out with his shoulders high as though with new purpose, even though he had none. It was the same purpose, and he'd made no progress, really.

Bell was at his heels. "You feel like explaining that?"

"She had nothing to do with it," Holmes said. 

~

"I've missed something," Holmes said. Alfredo opened his mouth. "You only come at the middle of the night when you're expected or when I'm not complying." Alfredo opened his mouth again, but Holmes turned and walked down the hall past the foyer, waving his arms. "Well, whatever it is will have to wait. Watson has been missing for thirty-nine hours and I haven't the time or energy to spare for meetings or sponsor-sponsee heart to hearts."

"Thirty nine hours," Alfredo echoed. 

They came to a stop in the library. Holmes spared a second to wonder if Alfredo had engaged the locks at the front door before following him into the house, but no more than that. "That is what I said."

"And you've been awake this whole time."

"Yes, well, I was sleeping when it happened. Surely you can understand my current reluctance."

Holmes thought he spoke in a normal enough tone of voice. But Alfredo held up his hands, and Sherlock noticed that his throat was burning. He inclined his head, pressing a finger to the middle of his forehead and breathing in, out.

"All right," Alfredo said.

"No," Holmes replied. No, it was not all right. No to what he would say next.

"Five minutes. You can give me five minutes."

Holmes inhaled for a count of ten and held it for a count of twenty. "One game."

Alfredo set up the chess board.

~

"I'd be lying if I said I hadn't thought about this," Holmes said. "In our line of work the occasional bullet flies our way, or knife thrown. I'd push her out of its path. My senses are far more sharply honed. I would be the one to notice, and to act." 

"That actually did occur, once, but..." Holmes trailed off, flinching at the months-old memory of Watson's long fingers closed around his forearms for a moment before she let go and ran toward Bell's harsh, gasping breaths.

Alfredo did not look up from his consideration of two pawns. Holmes felt a wave of appreciation for him, and for Watson, again. Alfredo would never have become part of his life if not for her.

"Of course." Holmes ran an index finger back and forth across the space below his lower lip. "In all these imagined scenarios, I'm there when the danger occurs."

~

When the game was over, Alfredo stowed the pieces and the board, putting the box back in its usual place. "Okay," he said, once that was done. "Now what can I do to help?"

Alfredo was a perceptive man, possessing knowledge and experience that came in handy during a number of cases. But he was no investigator, nor did he wish to be. Holmes asked him to sit, and listen. He was quite skilled at that.

It seemed so simple. The man who drove their regular route hadn't been seen since the day Watson disappeared. He was either a prime suspect or collateral damage, another victim. Yet his name and address were false, the documents he'd given to his employer fabricated. The man functionally did not exist. They had been receiving deliveries from a ghost for _months_ and Holmes couldn't even begin to guess why.

While going on about tire tracks for the fifth time, Holmes stopped in front of the board he'd constructed and stared, unblinking. The next thing he knew, it was on the ground, all of it, the photos, note-cards, and post-its now a shredded nest for Clyde to amuse himself with. Two of his fingernails were cracked from dragging against the wall, one of them bleeding. 

It changed nothing. Holmes had the urge to break something else until it couldn't be repaired, something important, like his relationship with Alfredo. He pushed hard against his temples and waited for the moment to pass, unable to stop meditating on an absurd but undeniable truth.

If Watson were by his side, he would have found her a day and a half ago.

~

At 4:46 AM, Alfredo took a short reprieve to the toilet and there was a knock at the door. 

Despite the growing circles under Bell's eyes, he looked strangely sanguine. "I've been periodically checking in with the switchboard," he said. "Fifteen minutes ago, they got a weird call. Three tones, then nothing. It happened again two minutes later, and then six minutes after that. The same three tones, two-eight-seven." He frowned slightly. "Now, I could be reaching. Maybe I got too many texts from you back in the day, I don't know."

"C-U-S," Holmes said. "See you soon."

"They traced it to a payphone in Long Island City, way out in the warehouse district. Worth a look, right?"

"Detective," Holmes said.

Bell pulled a face. "I know you're gonna say something having to do with broken clocks or blind pigs or whatever, so just-"

" _Thank you_." Holmes grimaced. He could recognize how irrational it was to want to take back a thank you, and yet. An unacceptable amount of sincerity had been attached to those words.

Bell stared for a long moment. "Yeah, well," he said, turning away to walk back down the steps. "Joan's family."

 _Bell is family at this point._ Watson said that once.

Holmes shook himself and followed, feeling like he'd witnessed a door cracking open only to shut completely.

~

Watson sat on the curb next to a payphone which was obviously broken, the cord ending in loose wires rather than a receiver. She lifted one weary hand in greeting, the corner of her mouth twitched, and the world regained color he hadn't realized it had been missing. 

Watson's second favorite pair of leggings were now smudged and dusty in addition to being faded. The brand new top had acquired several layers of sweat stains. Her feet were bare and blackened at the soles. "Gonna have to find you some new kicks," Bell said lightly. He crouched down in front of Watson while Holmes installed himself at her right side. "You okay?"

She let Holmes drape his peacoat over her shoulders. "I wasn't walking for very long." They allowed her to pretend he'd been asking about her feet. Bell even held out his hands, asking to inspect them further. She obliged, lifting one foot for him, then the other. "I came from about two blocks that way," she volunteered, pointing down the street. "Would have gone further to actual civilization, but I saw the payphone here and kinda gave up. I'm a little tired." She busied herself with the coat, sliding her arms through the sleeves and struggling to button it up with fingers gone red and stiff from the cold. "I wasn't really allowed to sleep much," she said to the ground. "But I wasn't hurt. Okay? Let's just... get that out of the way right now. He had a gun, because of course he had a gun. But he never touched me."

"Where is he now?" Bell asked.

She shook her head. "No idea. I woke up and they were gone."

"They," Holmes echoed. She flinched and went back to her buttons. 

Bell met Holmes's eyes. "Look, I don't have to take your statement right now." It was an opening she didn't take advantage of.

Holmes took a deep breath. "Would you prefer we transport you to hospital, or to wait for EMS?" A phalanx of proactive arguments formed in his mind (ignoring the voice that said everything would be right as rain if he just took her _home_ ). The cuts on her feet needed to be disinfected and bandaged. She was borderline hypothermic, suffering from exposure, possibly dangerously low blood sugar, and other, more terrible things he didn't dare-

"Let's get the hell out of here," she said. 

Holmes gave her a hand up. She let go as soon as she was standing and climbed into the backseat. While he wavered over finding out if she wanted him to join her there, she lie down, stretching out enough to take up the whole bench. Biting his tongue, Holmes slid into the passenger seat. "It's cool if you wanna catch some Z's," Bell said, eyeing Watson in his rearview mirror. "But it's a short drive to Elmhurst, and you know they'll be waking you up to ask all sorts of questions as soon as we get in."

"Good point," she murmured. "What happened in the Giants game I missed? My friend had money on it." Watson had displayed no prior affinity for American football. 

Bell did as she requested and then some. (Which, of course Bell was a sports fanatic. That ludicrously oversized flat screen did more than serve as a regular reminder of how far he'd come from the poverty line.) She interrupted three times to ask questions. Holmes concentrated on listening.

Three stoplights down the road, Watson returned to herself enough to tell them what had happened, and Holmes listened even harder.

~

Mary arrived a short stretch after Watson was settled into a bed in the ER with an IV and a patterned gown with a robe on top and multiple blankets. 

"Mom!" Watson said, scrambling to sit up straighter. She threw the phone at Sherlock, leaving the screen on the photos Bell had sent of the location where she'd been held. "Oh my God, I should have been the one to call you. I'm so sorry."

Mary waved dismissively at the air, making a sound somewhere between an annoyed cough and a sob as she sat on the edge of Watson's bed. She touched Watson's hair. 

"I'm okay," Watson said.

Mary pulled Watson into her arms. She spoke the Chinese name he'd always assumed Watson had, but she had never used in his presence. "My little girl," she said as she rocked. "My little girl."

Holmes excused himself to call Bell and fill him in on Watson's input. Also to pester him about how many checkpoints were being set up and where.

 

_Watson had been off for days, her movements disjointed and shot through with a clear vein of conflict. Or it could be irritability, he didn't have enough data to be certain._

_"An entire evening free," he said after a dinner of South African takeaway. "What shall we do with ourselves? Care to take in a strip show?"_

_Her benign expression changed to an outright glare. Gotcha._

_"You know what?" she spat out. "Sometimes I wish you would just-"_

_"This should be interesting."_

_"Stop. Okay? Stop. All this time, I've been trying to reconcile the fact that you used to spy on me, regularly, and then you have to go and continue with the comments."_

_"Watson, as I said, that was-"_

_She threw up her hands. "I know! Everything was different. I wasn't me, you weren't you. And it's not like we don't follow people literally all the time, so of course that's your first instinct when you've got some strange person living in your house. But still, it's hard to absorb."_

_Holmes curled and uncurled his fingers. He'd already given his apology and she'd accepted it. Her desired result was unclear._

_"I came here to HELP you," she said. She didn't sound angry any longer. He found himself wishing that she did._

_"Watson-"_

_She shook her head as she walked to the stairs. "It just felt like something that needed to be said." She spent the rest of the night on the upper levels, folding laundry and watching documentaries in the TV room._

_Holmes camped out in the kitchen beginning at six thirty the next morning. When Watson planned to go on a run, as she often did when they weren't tied to a case, she woke quite early and on her own._

_She came down just over an hour into his occupation, dressed in shorts and a t-shirt. Beyond the obligatory exchange of good mornings, she showed little interest in his presence._

_"I left some books for you on the table," he announced._

_She nodded and went for the pile. "What's this?" she murmured, forehead wrinkling. "Meat-preserving methods in the Indian subcontinent."_

_"It has relevance," he protested._

_"I'm sure it does," she said, and she prepared to take her coffee and books back upstairs._

_Holmes tapped a rhythm against the wall and made a fist. "The woman who ran my therapy group at Hemdale took three days to learn my given name."_

_She gave a short sigh. "Listen, I'm really not-"_

_"Please," he said, and she paused, leaning her hip against the countertop and putting the coffee down. "Also she showed blatant, though most likely subconscious, favoritism toward the white clients. My psychologist was a legacy at Yale going back several generations and had chosen his field because he liked the manner of living to which he'd grown accustomed. He was not in the strictest sense incompetent; I observed numerous clients finding benefit from his sessions. But his work ethic was less than exemplary. And from each of them, I could detect a whiff of- of slumming. They thought they were better than the people they were helping."_

_"Unfortunate, but sadly not uncommon," she said. Her posture all but screamed Can I go now?_

_"You were the first professional I'd encountered who was never like that. My hypothesis was that you'd been irrevocably humbled by your fall from grace. But the why of it didn't really matter. It's highly possible that's just how you... how you are." He looked her way for a split second. No more than that. She wasn't looking at him anyway. "You were very good at your job, Watson. I've never actually told you that."_

_"Thank you, Sherlock." The warmth was back in her voice. He suddenly breathed easier, realizing how much he'd missed it. "Anyway, I've got reading to get to. Grab me if we get a call from Bell or something."_

_"Will do," he promised._

 

Holmes hovered awkwardly in the tiny, curtained-off space as Watson, ashamed of leaving the NYPD to notify her mother of her safe return, used Mary's phone to make a few calls. Each of the people on the other line began by yelling out, "JOAN!" loud enough for even those who weren't Sherlock to hear. 

It got her attention, every time.


	2. Joan

"So we'll just keep on monitoring, and in a few hours, we'll see where we're at," the doctor said. "My best guess is, you'll be home by dinner."

Joan gave him a polite smile. "That sounds a bit excessive." Her mom tutted off to the side and the doctor shored up his blandly professional facade, while Sherlock continued to blend into the wall. Joan didn't let her smile waver. "My base temp has been at ninety-seven and above the last four times it's been checked. My vitals are normal. I have no infection, no head injury, and no pending treatments. All I need is to finish out this bag, so another thirty minutes--maybe forty-five--and I should be perfectly fine to go."

The doctor exchanged a knowing look with Joan's mother. "You know who they say make the worst patients," he said. Joan felt nauseated. But he left, with a promise to have someone bring the appropriate forms.

"Honey," her mother said. She fussed with the sheet on Joan's bed as she switched to under-her-breath Mandarin. " _Don't you think you could use some more rest?_ "

Joan made her reply in weary yet perfectly audible English. "These surroundings aren't helping much, Ma." 

The corners of her mother's mouth turned down. 

"Don't look at me like that." Joan let her head fall against the pillow. "Also Sherlock understands Mandarin. If you want to be discreet you need to try something else." 

"Joan," her mom said, flushing.

"I'm pretty sure he doesn't know Cantonese," Joan offered.

He shook his head.

Joan closed her eyes. "There you go then."

~

Joan slid into a pair of soccer sandals, mindful of the bandages. In a few days she'd be grateful that she managed to avoid stitches. Right now her feet felt too swollen and sore for her to care. As she hobbled out the front door, a kid-sized missile sprang forward and latched around her midsection. "Joan! Joan Joan Joan Joan."

"Devon Devon Devon Devon Devon." She laughed and stroked that unreal red hair.

"You're fine?" he asked, squeezing.

"Well, she looks fantastic," Emily said, sounding watery, wobbling up and down in pitch. She enfolded herself around Joan's upper body and kissed her face hard. "Are you going out? I thought we could all have dinner. We brought IHOP." She sniffled and shook the brown bag enticingly. "Who doesn't want pancakes after dark, right?"

 

_"Dr. Watson." Joan heard Emily's voice, distorted and nasal from pinching her nose, before she saw the head pop in the door of her dorm room. "Paging Dr. Joan Watson. You are needed at a location that is not your computer desk. Please respond immediately."_

_Joan reflexively saved her work. Only after the function completed did she turn her face away from the monitor just enough so Emily could see her roll her eyes. "You're hilarious."_

_Emily waved one hand in front of her to express disapproval at Joan's general state of being. "You're turning into a mole person. And that's ridiculous when you still have seven years of education, however long internship is, then residency, and what's even after that?" She wrinkled her nose. "You know what, I don't care. You need to take advantage of this time to be a regular person while you can. Pancakes. Now. Come on."_

_"I'll be downstairs in five minutes." Joan removed the floppy disk after saving the file one last time, and shut down the computer. "Get out."_

_She spent four of the five minutes looking for work she could bring with her and do under the table. Emily and Ken would give her a hard time, but the opinion of her professor held a little more sway._

 

Funny. Back then, the worries she'd had had felt so much like the real thing. 

"Sorry," Joan said. "They found the guy. At least they're pretty sure. I'm on my way to the precinct to ID him right now."

"Wow, so soon! It's only been a few hours."

"I know. Your tax dollars at work." She shrugged, tamping down on the irrational urge to apologize again. "Anyway I have to go. Now."

"Of course." Emily furrowed her brow at the front door, closed, with no one else coming through it. "So you're meeting Sherlock over there?"

"I assume? The call was from the captain. I'm not sure where Sherlock is." Her last awareness of his presence had been when he was hovering in the hallway while she locked the door of her room, knowing he could hear it, and climbed into bed. "I wasn't allowed to be part of the investigation, but he was." She watched the concerned question form in Emily's mind. "Oh, he didn't leave me alone! Mom was here for a bit," before Joan convinced her to go home and rest in her own bed, "and a friend stuck around." She thought fondly of Alfredo, radiating concern without prying, bringing her tea and today's paper. Currently he was passed out in Sherlock's favorite chair. It had been a long couple of days for everyone, it seemed. 

Emily mercifully didn't ask why Alfredo wasn't with her right now. "Honey, what were you gonna do? Go on the subway with your feet all Frankensteined like that?"

"I-" Joan blinked, trying to retrace her steps. "Actually," she said with a cough. "I was going to go down to Court Street and hail a cab." It felt like a lie, even though it wasn't. 

Emily hooked her arm with Joan's. "We'll drop you off."

~

"Damn, I almost forgot." Emily rooted around the space near the driver's seat. "This teenage boy caught me on the sidewalk right before you came out. Around the same age as one of Hope's students, maybe a little younger, you cougar. Wearing a Nuggets cap?"

Levon, Joan thought. It made sense that he and Teddy had been made part of the investigation. Must have been looking for payment. If Sherlock was inside the precinct, she'd have to tell him to get in touch. "Wait. Cougar, what?"

Emily tossed over a small plastic bag. "He asked me to give this to you. Said you told him once how you like Denzel."

Joan peered into the bag at a pair of bootleg DVDs, her Hollywood crush's two latest movies, one on its way out of the theaters and the other just arriving. "Huh." She didn't even remember having that conversation.

"You'll be okay?" Emily said, and Joan realized she was standing on the sidewalk and the passenger-side door was still wide open. 

"Of course," she said, slamming the door and wiggling her fingers at Devon. He jerked in his car-seat and covered his eyes, pretending to hide. "Thanks for the ride, guys."

~

Joan came to a full stop in front of each person in the line-up before she said, "Two, and yes, I'm sure. A hundred percent."

She could see his face clearly over the barrel of a shotgun, his eyes reddened with anxiety. _Fix her. Fix my baby girl._

Gregson placed a hand at her back. "Well done, Joan." Without her heels on, everyone seemed a lot taller than usual.

"Not that we expected anything less," Marcus said. He gave Joan a nod and left the room to get moving with the case.

"Jeralyn, the little girl," Joan blurted out.

"They've got her at Mercy Hospital in Nassau County. The local cops passed on your instructions. She's already improving. The foster mom he stole her from is on a plane from Buffalo. She should be there in less than two hours."

"So... so she's going to be all right." All the energy Joan had brought into the room seemed to leave her suddenly, like she'd been borrowing it from someone and they just took it back.

"You did your part." Gregson splayed his fingers a bit, spreading enough warmth that she didn't feel the need to shiver. "You saved that kid's life."

"Now we have to move on to other concerns," Sherlock said.

"The grand jury." Joan tried to smile, but her head was full of noise. "Piece of cake."

As she walked through the door Sherlock held open for her, trying not to limp, she heard him click his tongue.

"Neglecting your medication schedule." She could see the secret, almost tentative twinkle in his eye without having to look. "Wherever could you have picked up such behavior."

"This is nothing like a bullet wound," she muttered, passing him by. "When I say the pain's a three, you can believe me."

Also without having to look, she could see that twinkle vanish like it was never there.

~

Joan leaned her head against the door, her hand on the knob. She closed her eyes and drifted, just for a moment before the pain in her feet brought her back. She thought again about grabbing the chair she used as a night stand, letting herself sit while she waited. But it couldn't be much longer now.

Just when she thought she couldn't take any more, she heard it, the creak of floorboards. 

Joan turned the lock and crawled under the covers. She was asleep within seconds.

~

Dr. Young, the therapist, had a light West Indian accent and a necklace of wooden beads. Her office smelled of natural vanilla and a touch of incense smoke.

"I can see from your forms that you were with Dr. Candace Reed for several years."

Joan nodded. "Candace was recommended by a colleague at the hospital. And she helped me through the transition after I left surgery and became a sober companion." She tapped her fingers against the armrest. Maybe it had been a little counter-productive, using someone closely linked to her past to move on to her future. She'd never thought about it before. "I left last year because she could not support my decision to remain with my partner. Also I didn't really need a therapist anymore, so."

"By partner, you mean your business partner, the one you listed as your emergency contact?"

 

_After giving up on their search of Bell's apartment, they took the subway. Nineteen minutes of silence on the L train. Eight minutes of silence on the walk home. Three more getting inside and walking up to the second floor bathroom._

_Joan looked in the mirror as she finished washing the smell of latex gloves off her hands. "Partner," she said, trying it out. She could only hear his voice, so she said it again._

 

"Sherlock, my partner, knows this lawyer who offered to prepare me for the grand jury. But." Joan shifted in her seat, smiling as her stomach roiled. "I don't know. I guess it helped."

"It seems like you had some misgivings about this lawyer."

"The same woman interrogated me at a hearing a few months back. I'm already not a fan of courtrooms. They're like cemeteries; you're never there for a good reason. And the story I was there to tell..." She stopped, reminding herself that Marcus was almost fully recovered, as was her faith in Sherlock. 

"You've been in court more than once?"

"Several years ago, I was sued by the family of a patient. Malpractice and wrongful death." 

"That must have been difficult for you."

Joan looked down at her feet and up again. "The thing is, I've been told that I can be very, um, circumspect. It was a barrier, reportedly, during my civil trial. There were concerns that I wasn't eliciting sympathy from the jury." The lawyer had been the son of a man from the publishing firm her dad had used for decades. She'd refused Ty's help in finding someone, but she never could say no to her father, not back then. Anyway, he was fully qualified, with a distinguished degree and an impressive win ratio. 

Then he'd called her cold. He'd gone on to say that she was "already starting out with a disadvantage" and she'd been too numb inside to ask him to clarify. She just thought of the nearly all-white jury and connected the dots herself.

"How did you feel about being told that?"

Joan glanced out the window. "The facts mattered more than a couple of visible tears. They found for me in the end, so that was validating."

"They couldn't prove you had done anything wrong."

 

_The assisting surgeon looked Joan up and down with a quiet, sympathetic sigh. "This was a rough one, I can see that."_

_"I don't understand how this happened," she said. Her gaze kept drifting almost hopefully toward the heart monitor, doubly naïve, and even stupid, since it was powered down. "I wasn't... I did everything-"_

_"Look, I'll notify the family, okay?"_

_She swallowed hard. "No. No. I'll do it."_

_Her voice broke the second time she said, "I'm sorry." Horrified, she pressed her lips together, determined to stay and be there for them. But after about thirty seconds, as Joey Castoro stared at her, confused and bewildered, his mother Rita clutched at him and began to wail. Joan ran. She left them to their grief, ducking into the nearest restroom and throwing cold water on her face._

_"Calm down right now," she ordered. This was not her loss, this was her fault. She had no right, none at all. "Calm. Down."_

 

"No," Joan replied. "Not even to a 'preponderance of the evidence'." She removed one of her bracelets and put it on the opposite wrist. "Anyway, the grand jury went fine. It's just, you know, this is really important to me. That baby almost died because of him. He should be punished to the fullest extent of the law."

"The man who abducted you?"

"Yes. Foster care isn't the best system, but it's in place for people like him who aren't equipped to do the job. He shouldn't have taken her and he should never have prioritized his needs over her health. I'm concerned a jury might be swayed by him being the natural father and let him off somehow."

"Are you ready to talk about what happened, Joan?"

Joan bit back the claim that she'd been ready since she sat down. It wasn't true. Giving a facts-based timeline for the investigation had been difficult. Describing what she had _felt_ during the events seemed almost impossible. "It was last Thursday morning, around 9:45. Sherlock was snoring on the couch." She frowned, the wash of affection complicated and muddied by the awareness of what came next. "I left the house to go across the street to the mailbox. The UPS truck was there. Still there. I'd first noticed it about twenty minutes before."

"I know," Joan looked up to say. "It's not my fault." Because anyone would tell her that, probably even Sherlock, who had been training her to be alert to all possibilities. "He opened up the passenger door. It was a little weird, but I didn't think anything of it. I've seen him before, Richard Chapman, he's had us on his route for a while." She uncrossed and re-crossed her legs. "We, um, spoke a few times. Someone in the neighborhood had told him about me and Sherlock being detectives. He used to joke about it, ask for help tracking down recipients who weren't answering their door."

"He'd given you no reason to be wary." Somehow Dr. Young managed to keep it from sounding like a question or a judgment. Joan felt okay to keep going.

"Well, he pointed his gun at me, told me to get in the van. That close it would've been hard for him to miss, even if I tried running. After I got in, he- he thanked me." She folded her arms, holding herself tight to keep from shivering. "Said he was sorry but he knew someone who needed my help. He made me drive so he could keep the gun on me the whole time. I wasn't certain he wouldn't use it. I've met a lot of killers, so many it feels like everyone has that in them under the right circumstances. And he was clearly desperate. Then he led me to this abandoned office space, and we got to the--what's the word?--a pack and play, and there was this tiny little two year old girl. She was semi-conscious, flushed with fever. He said they'd had to leave their apartment because the neighbors had suspected something, but the baby got sick before he could get enough money to leave the country. I..." She trailed off, unsure of where to go next.

"That was not what you'd expected."

"No, not in the slightest. It was baffling. I said, 'I don't understand why you would take me.'" Joan took a drink of water. "'I'm not a doctor.'"

 

_Ty lightly rubbed her forearm and took her hand in his. "Of course you're still a doctor, Joan." He had never called her Joanie, before, during, or after their relationship. He was far too respectful and proper for nicknames. (She thought of the night she bit Liam's shoulder so hard she tasted blood, and the growl he let out. She never heard anything quite like it again.) "This doesn't have to change anything."_

_"Maybe I want it to," she said._

_He only continued looking at her like she was a little girl crying over a skinned knee, waiting for him to cover it with a bandaid and a kiss. She sipped from her wine glass, and then she sipped some more. When it was empty, she reclaimed her hand from his, excused herself to go to the restroom, and walked out the front door._

 

Only one person in her life had been happy to hear that she'd left medicine.

 

_"Good!" Her baba carefully added another wheat thin to the tower he'd been constructing on the picnic table. "So now you don't work. What's next, Florida? Don't settle anywhere near Orlando. I was Walt Disney's top animator for eighteen years. I liked everything about that job but the location. Central Florida is a pit."_

_Joan ducked her head, trying not to recall the girl who'd believed his stories, as she spread barbecue sauce on the ribs and checked the flames. He wouldn't consent to go to her apartment and let her feed him there, so a few years ago she'd started looking for public spaces that had grills. "I've got about twenty-five years before I'm ready for retirement, Ba."_

_"I recommend you pick a better occupation. One where I can come visit you. We can have lunch after I see my worker. I'll bring fried chicken to your office."_

_"I'd like that," she said. She looked over as he laughed at something someone else had said, someone she couldn't see or hear. Her smile faded._

 

That had been the last time Joan had seen him. She took a deep breath. "Anyway, the Daily News posted an article about one of my cases a few months ago. They referred to me by my former title and included where I last practiced. That's how Richard Chapman learned about my medical experience." She pressed her lips together, struggling against a frown. "Is it okay if we stop here?" She sat on her hands and rocked forward slightly, squeezing her fingers under the backs of her thighs. "I'm sorry, I'm just. Very tired."

Next time she would talk about diagnosing Jeralyn with botulism from eating food he'd scavenged from the garbage because he'd been saving all his pennies for leaving New York, the endless hours trying to convince Richard that she wouldn't survive without a course of IV antibiotics in a hospital setting, and maybe also waking up to find them gone, not knowing if he'd finally seen reason and taken her to get proper treatment, or if the baby had died while Joan had closed her eyes and he'd left to bury her. 

Next time. Not today.

~

"Have you talked to Dad?" Oren asked. "He was talking about cutting his lecture tour short and coming home early."

Joan focused on the light coffee stain on the duvet just between her knees and wound the cord of the land-line around her finger. "So Mom and I had brunch today. You know Mykonos, that place in Astoria where you were so hungover you puked in the restroom? It's called Caledad now. Upscale Latin. My chorizo and eggs were out of this world."

"That was a stomach bug, okay? I was like fifteen when that happened. I told you I never got that wasted until Dartmouth." 

She allowed herself a small, relieved smile, since he wasn't watching. "Anyway, I'm sure history wouldn't repeat itself if we went back the next time you're in the area."

"Speaking of, I haven't booked my flight yet. Actually, while I got you, I should check online."

"Wait, I didn't mean now. What are you talking about? Mom was just telling me this morning Gabrielle was having contractions."

"It's Braxton-Hicks, Joan. You know that."

"No one knows anything for sure. You're not leaving your fiancee eight months into her first pregnancy. Not when you don't need to."

"Joanie," he said tightly, almost angrily. Over the years, they'd had exactly three discussions about their dad's affair, and he displayed more emotion in that one word than he had in all of them put together.

Joan mentally recited the parts of the brain four times, letting him breathe.

"I love you, little brother," she said. She always meant it, but the words had never come this easily.

"I love you, too, sis," he said, still struggling.

"Tell me about the baby. I don't even know if it's a boy or a girl."

He let out a sudden burst of grateful laughter. "Neither do we!" Then he launched into a cheerful tirade about Gabrielle and superstitions and a baby shower full of pastel yellow and green presents.

~

Joan approached Marcus near the tie display, a pair of shirts in her hand, yellow and mint green. She prepared herself for resistance. Purple, blue, and burgundy were great on him, especially with the gray he liked so much, but his horizons could do with a little expanding.

Marcus had his phone out. Joan craned her neck to see a distinctly familiar lack of Webster-approved words. When he actually answered the text, she couldn't help raising her eyebrows.

Marcus stowed the phone with a shrug. "We're not friends. Just feels less like the world is gonna end if I acknowledge he lives in it." His expression softened. "We got you back. I can't _quite_ hate the idea of working with the guy."

The hand that grasped her shoulder shook ever so slightly as he let go, like it did lately when he'd been pushing himself too hard. Even as she smiled, the latte she'd had for breakfast curdled in her stomach. She felt a flash of panic like the one she'd had when Marcus had closed his eyes two minutes before the ambulance had arrived. 

"Hey, now." Joan cleared her throat and handed off the shirts before she could drop them. Her fingers felt sticky with blood, a mix of Marcus, Rhys Kinlan, Aaron Colville, Gerald Castoro. "I got myself back." 

~

Joan went into the kitchen in search of cereal. On the table was a cell phone, next to a note that almost radiated with defensiveness.

_This was made in case of emergencies only. I assure you, I have never used it for any reason and have no designs in that direction whatsoever._

Joan smirked. He'd cloned her phone. Of course he had.

Well, with her original phone pretty much gone forever, this was more convenient than going back to the store and trying to see if Samsung insurance covered abduction and resulting use as evidence in a criminal case. She took her new phone and a bowl of shredded wheat to the library to check her messages.

There were two from Carrie. The line of thought that led to calling her that day escaping her at the moment, Joan put those aside to deal with another time. One from Ms. Hudson. Most likely checking in from her excursion, though it wouldn't surprise Joan to learn the news had reached her in Ankara. Ms. Hudson had a knack for knowing things about people in a way somehow completely different from Sherlock's. She was a good confidant, Joan had found. That probably had a lot to do with it.

Six missed calls and two messages from "Dad".

 

_Joan checked the pork chops sizzling in the pan, turning two of them over. She blew her bangs out of her eyes with a tired huff of air. Helping cook dinner was the most tedious of her chores, hot and boring and it involved standing still for far too long. When she grew up, she wasn't going to cook unless she absolutely had to._

_A pair of burly arms crossed at her collarbone and pulled her in close._

_"Mom showed me your end of the year report card," her dad said, and he kissed the top of her head. "You know my first job was doing maintenance at an office building? Never thought during those years toting people's garbage I'd have a kid with straight As in science."_

_Joan held onto his arms. The last time her mom had taken her from soccer practice to visit her baba, he'd shook his head, insisting that his daughter was only four years old and that she and her twin--also named Joan--were locked away in an orphanage run by Catholic nuns. ("Don't cry," her mom had said. "Honey, please don't cry. Not over him. He's the one choosing not to take his medication. He could have been there for you, for both of us, but he never was.")_

_Even though she hadn't been born with his name, she knew that her dad loved her. He'd told her numerous times. But she'd done something concrete to earn this. That felt different._

_"Dr. Joanie Watson," he said, squeezing her once more before letting go._

_"And Oren, my man!" He stopped at the table to give Oren a high-five. "You can be her first high-profile patient. She'll fix the ACL you tear sliding into home."_

_She blinked the mist out of her eyes and returned to the pork chops, smiling to herself. Dr. Joan Watson. She did like the way that sounded._

 

Joan erased the message along with the notifications, and went back to her cereal. It took two spoonfuls for the guilt to expand to the point where she couldn't eat any more. Still, she didn't call him.

~

Joan heard the creaking up the stairs just outside the bathroom door and reacted the way she had for days, almost completely without thinking. She turned the lock. Immediately afterward she shifted toward the sink and back again. She unlocked the door, struck by her own absurdity. _What the hell are you doing, Joan?_ She was there to clean. 

She picked up the sponge, put it down, and locked the door again. 

She turned the lock back and forth three more times. Her eyelids were emblazoned with the face of Richard Chapman in high definition, remembering every pore and pockmark. Her jaw locked, her teeth grinding together. She felt like sinking to her knees. 

How dare he. How fucking _dare_ he. She would have helped him if he'd asked. He didn't have to-

She closed her hand around the doorknob, imagining she could break it into pieces if she just tightened her grip and _pulled_. 

Joan stumbled out of the bathroom. Sherlock startled like a raccoon on a quiet road suddenly disturbed by an oncoming car. The rage sending flames up her esophagus cooled in an instant, transforming into an emotion just as wild and dangerous. Somehow it frightened her even more. 

Her chest felt tight, too small and getting smaller. Shrinking. She flexed her fingers and tried a steadying breath, but the exhale crumbled on its way out of her, separating into a series of staccato bursts. 

She ordered herself to say she was tired and going to bed. Better yet, that she was taking the cleaning supplies back downstairs. One sentence, two at the most. He would move out of the way, and that would be it.

"I know you were searching for me," she said. "I never thanked you for that."

"Of course, Watson," he replied. He stared at the wall. She caught her eyes drifting down to her trembling hands and she stopped herself with a wrench.

_Look at me,_ she wanted to scream.

 

_"Mr. Castoro? Hi there." Joan came to a stop near the two-seater table, a large styrofoam cup full of caffeinated motivation for the long drive home warming her hands._

_He took off his reading glasses. "In fourteen hours you'll have your fingers in my insides, Doc. We don't need to be so formal."_

_She smiled. "Gerald. What are you up to down here?"_

_"Figured I'd come to the caf for some chips or something for that... What'd they call it?"_

_"Salt loading. To make up for your non-functioning adrenal gland."_

_"Right, right." He closed his book. "It's probably the only time I'll have a doctor telling me to eat salty foods." He smiled. "Lost my appetite for it, if you can believe that. Gave my fries away to this big-eyed kid who told me he just became a dad today."_

_"Yet you're still here," she said curiously._

_"I've got my sudoku to keep me occupied. It's okay."_

_"I'm surprised you're on your own right now." She nearly glanced at the cafeteria line to spy his ever-present family. "Where is everybody?"_

_He blushed, looking left and right. "Yeah, I might've made Rita think Joey was planning a wild party tonight with both of us gone. He's studying, actually. Or at least he better be." He shrugged. "Well, his mom being around will be good motivation for that."_

_She tilted her head, amused. "Why would you do that?"_

_"Wanted a couple hours of quiet. Just a couple. Things had gotten a little..." He placed his hands at either side of his head and moved them back and forth. "Noisy, you know?"_

_She nodded slowly. "Actually, that makes perfect sense to me."_

_As she turned to walk away, he rubbed the back of his neck. "I know it's late, but you could take a load off, if you want."_

_She tipped her chin at his sudoku book. "How good are you at that stuff?"_

_"Well, I don't wanna brag, but my boy says it's my hidden talent."_

_She sat down and took a long sip from her coffee cup. "How about a race? You get a page, I get a page."_

 

Sherlock met her eyes. 

"Watson." His fingers wrapped around her forearms as her knees began to buckle. "Joan. It's all right. I've got you."

Joan cracked at the fault lines, and fell apart.


End file.
